Entry #166
April 23, 2010
Hello Everyone, it's me Wimsey coming to you from Manhattan's Upper West Side where technological and scheduling disasters are in play. Owing to a catastrophic computer f
ailure this week there will be some pictures from last Sunday's walk with my human Maria and her friend Elizabeth but not much of a blog post. It's been a pretty routine week here anyway--just the usual beautiful spring weather and lots of adulation from residents and visitors alike. Also much towing of Elizabeth to the Boat Basin Cafe in hopes that she will buy a beer 
so I can play with the plastic cup when she is finished. For reasons that escape me, Elizabeth is reluctant to spend her afternoons drinking beer in order to indulge me. 
She can be cruel that way (although I was exceptionally persuasive on one warm and technologically disasterous day--it is inded fortunate that I can't play with used glasses of whiskey). Also we 
met a fellow there named Brian who has a bloodhound in North Carolina and there was much comparing of notes and concluding that whether rural or urban, bloodhounds are obstinate and difficult (and stinky) but strangely compelling in our bad behavior.
And speaking of bad behavior, Elizabeth is going to Geneva tomorrow and will miss most of my d
oings during the week, hence next week there will be no blog post! It is tragic that there will be no one to record my life for five days. Not only that but there is also this volcano thing happening. If she gets stuck in Switzerland I will be one really cheesed off Hound. And on the subject of cheese, Maria opined that I might forgive her absence if she brought me back some cheese. Cheese is a start.
And on the subject of happier upcoming events,our good friend Ilonka and her husband (who has never met me) are coming up next weekend so there will at least be some recompense for being abandoned by part of my entourage.
So until next time,
Wimsey, the abandoned and unloved
Showing posts with label bloodhound. Show all posts
Showing posts with label bloodhound. Show all posts
Friday, April 23, 2010
Wimsey's Blog: Diary of a Manhattan Bloodhound #166
Friday, May 8, 2009
Wimsey's Blog: Diary of a Manhattan Bloodhound #118
May 8, 2009
Entry #118
Hello everyone, it’s me, Wet and Wild Wimsey coming to you from the rain drenched Upper West Side of Manhattan. Well last week it wasn’t bad enough that I got water poured on me in the bath tub, this week I am getting water poured on me outside as well. All of which means my hu
man Maria and her friend Elizabeth, in a foolish attempt at self preservation, have been walking me in a gentle leader. I like to drag my humans through the mud—literally-- which is fun for me but potentially injurious to them. Hence the heinous Gentle Leader.
Entry #118
Hello everyone, it’s me, Wet and Wild Wimsey coming to you from the rain drenched Upper West Side of Manhattan. Well last week it wasn’t bad enough that I got water poured on me in the bath tub, this week I am getting water poured on me outside as well. All of which means my hu
man Maria and her friend Elizabeth, in a foolish attempt at self preservation, have been walking me in a gentle leader. I like to drag my humans through the mud—literally-- which is fun for me but potentially injurious to them. Hence the heinous Gentle Leader. Anyway, you will note that in this week’s photos I am not my usual smiling self but wet and cheesed off at this aquatic turn of climactic events. Personally I blame my humans for the weather and cast accusing glances at them throughout these wet walks. But under the heading of every rain cloud h
as a silver lining, I did have the park pretty much to myself on Sunday, my humans being the only people foolish enough to be out and about taking a stroll. Of course other New Yorkers are not living with a large, demanding Hound and are therefore not seeking to avoid living with a large, demanding Hound with an uncontrolled case of cabin fever-- large demanding Hounds with uncontrolled cases of cabin fever have an unfortunate tendency to eat the cabin. It’s much better for them to get wet and muddy and have a large demanding Hound with an uncontrolled case of snoring in the bed fever.
Anyway on the subject of the empty park I did get to investigate this statue of Hans Christian Anderson without the throngs of excited young ‘uns who are normally frisking about. Now Hans Christian Anderson wrote a lot of famous fairy tales and I am a big fan of f
airy tales but many of them could be improved:
Cinderella: A beautiful young girl is prevented from going to a ball by her wicked step mother and ugly step sisters. She goes to the ball anyway because her Fairy God Hound assures her that anything is possible if one is determined, stubborn and persistent enough. While she is at the ball the prince falls in love with her but she flees on the stroke of midnight. The Prince’s Hound, always on the lookout for the finer things in life discovers that Cinderella has dropped a shoe and settles down for a good chew (the
whole glass slipper thing is a myth—what woman would want the world to see what her toes look like crammed into her ball room stilettos). The Prince, recognizing the shoe, bribes his Hound to drop it with a large piece of liver cooked just the way the Hound likes it. He waves the smelly slipper in front of the Hound (Cinderella had after all been dancing in it for quite a number of hours) and tells the Hound to find its owner. The heroic Hound springs into action and finds Cinderella. With his superior sense of smell the Hound recognizes her immediately even though the prince, who can only rely on his eyes, is somewhat doubtful that this dowdy creature wearing no makeup and no designer clothing and jewelry is really the woman of his dreams. He wonders what his mother will think. Nevertheless, the wise Hound assures him that all women look like this without professional assistance and the prince whisks Cinderella off to the royal hair and makeup salon. The Hound finally gets to chew up the shoes and Cinderella is so grateful for the Hound’s assistance that he is always by her side and they live happily ever after.
The Emperor’s New Clothes: A metrosexual emperor who is very fond of clothes hires two men who promise to make him the most beautiful suit of clothes ever. They do, but unfortunately the Emperor’s Hound is also very fond of clothes and so the emperor has to go out naked.
Little Red Riding Hood: Little Red Riding Hood, a visually challenged child, is taking food to her sick grandmother and is naïve enough to tell a Hound. The Hound suggests that she add some nutritious liver to her basket and while she is doing so he sneaks off to the grandmother’s assisted living facility and shoves her out of bed and takes her place. Little Red Riding Hood, who neglected to put in her contacts that morning, nevertheless notices that her grandmother seems to have very long ears and smells funny. But then she notices all the wrinkles and is reassured. The Hound consumes the basket of food and sends her out to MacDonald’s for some fries.
The Princess and the Pea: A prince’s overly invested mother is determined that her daughter-in law be a real princess (aren’t they all?) One stormy night a beautiful wet princess turns u
p at the castle. Her wet garments leave nothing to the imagination and the prince is smitten. His mother, who really wants her son never to marry at all, is determined to prove that the shapely young woman is not really a princess. She places a pea under twenty mattresses and next morning asks the young woman how she slept. The young woman complains of getting no sleep and of being bruised. The controlling mother sadly thinks it’s because of the pea she put in her bed. The Prince definitely knows it’s because of the Hound he put in her bed.
The Three Bears: Three Bears go out for a stroll and foolishly leave their cottage unlocked while their porridge cools. When they return they find their porridge has been eaten, their ch
airs chewed up and their beds slept in. “Who’s been sleeping in my bed?” asks the Papa Bear. “It’s that large smelly Hound again you idiot” “I told you to lock the door but you never listen to me” complained Mama Bear. The sequel: The Three Bears Go To Divorce Court.
Snow White: A vain queen leaves her beautiful young rival to die in the forest where she is rescued by and moves in with seven Hounds. The Queen finds Snow White when she follows a suspiciously large delivery of Febreze and tries to kill her with a poisoned apple. But
before Snow White can eat the apple it is stolen by a Hound upon whose cast iron stomach it has no effect. Snow White becomes exhausted with all the stench and the cleaning involved in keeping house for the Hounds and takes off with the first handsome prince who turns up. The vain queen asks her mirror “Mirror Mirror on the Wall, Who is the Fairest of them All? “We Are!’ bay the seven Hounds in the mirror.
Anyway with all this rain it’s been a pretty uneventful week—although I was awarded a new large stuffed dog to assuage the boredom and there was more baking to stick my nose into. And I did manage force down a record breaking 15 cups of kibble on Sunday which gave Maria an opportunity to eventually demonstrate her prodigious skill in one handed, one bag large pile poop scooping. It is a skill much envied by Elizabeth who has yet to master this essential art. But bad weather or no, a Hound has to keep his strength up especially if he wishes to retain his ability to pull with the force of a tractor beam. And speaking of tractor beams, a new Star Trek movie opened today. I am a big fan of Star Trek as we Hounds are nothing if not enterprising
Hound Trek
These are the voyages of the Hound Ship Enterprise, its five year mission to explore new worl
ds, seek out new life, new civilizations and new stuff to chew up and to boldly split infinitives and go where no one (with good reason) has gone before but which will result in high grossing movies and TV shows.
James T. Hound: Where is my crew?
as a silver lining, I did have the park pretty much to myself on Sunday, my humans being the only people foolish enough to be out and about taking a stroll. Of course other New Yorkers are not living with a large, demanding Hound and are therefore not seeking to avoid living with a large, demanding Hound with an uncontrolled case of cabin fever-- large demanding Hounds with uncontrolled cases of cabin fever have an unfortunate tendency to eat the cabin. It’s much better for them to get wet and muddy and have a large demanding Hound with an uncontrolled case of snoring in the bed fever.
Anyway on the subject of the empty park I did get to investigate this statue of Hans Christian Anderson without the throngs of excited young ‘uns who are normally frisking about. Now Hans Christian Anderson wrote a lot of famous fairy tales and I am a big fan of f
airy tales but many of them could be improved:Cinderella: A beautiful young girl is prevented from going to a ball by her wicked step mother and ugly step sisters. She goes to the ball anyway because her Fairy God Hound assures her that anything is possible if one is determined, stubborn and persistent enough. While she is at the ball the prince falls in love with her but she flees on the stroke of midnight. The Prince’s Hound, always on the lookout for the finer things in life discovers that Cinderella has dropped a shoe and settles down for a good chew (the
whole glass slipper thing is a myth—what woman would want the world to see what her toes look like crammed into her ball room stilettos). The Prince, recognizing the shoe, bribes his Hound to drop it with a large piece of liver cooked just the way the Hound likes it. He waves the smelly slipper in front of the Hound (Cinderella had after all been dancing in it for quite a number of hours) and tells the Hound to find its owner. The heroic Hound springs into action and finds Cinderella. With his superior sense of smell the Hound recognizes her immediately even though the prince, who can only rely on his eyes, is somewhat doubtful that this dowdy creature wearing no makeup and no designer clothing and jewelry is really the woman of his dreams. He wonders what his mother will think. Nevertheless, the wise Hound assures him that all women look like this without professional assistance and the prince whisks Cinderella off to the royal hair and makeup salon. The Hound finally gets to chew up the shoes and Cinderella is so grateful for the Hound’s assistance that he is always by her side and they live happily ever after.The Emperor’s New Clothes: A metrosexual emperor who is very fond of clothes hires two men who promise to make him the most beautiful suit of clothes ever. They do, but unfortunately the Emperor’s Hound is also very fond of clothes and so the emperor has to go out naked.
Little Red Riding Hood: Little Red Riding Hood, a visually challenged child, is taking food to her sick grandmother and is naïve enough to tell a Hound. The Hound suggests that she add some nutritious liver to her basket and while she is doing so he sneaks off to the grandmother’s assisted living facility and shoves her out of bed and takes her place. Little Red Riding Hood, who neglected to put in her contacts that morning, nevertheless notices that her grandmother seems to have very long ears and smells funny. But then she notices all the wrinkles and is reassured. The Hound consumes the basket of food and sends her out to MacDonald’s for some fries.
The Princess and the Pea: A prince’s overly invested mother is determined that her daughter-in law be a real princess (aren’t they all?) One stormy night a beautiful wet princess turns u
p at the castle. Her wet garments leave nothing to the imagination and the prince is smitten. His mother, who really wants her son never to marry at all, is determined to prove that the shapely young woman is not really a princess. She places a pea under twenty mattresses and next morning asks the young woman how she slept. The young woman complains of getting no sleep and of being bruised. The controlling mother sadly thinks it’s because of the pea she put in her bed. The Prince definitely knows it’s because of the Hound he put in her bed.The Three Bears: Three Bears go out for a stroll and foolishly leave their cottage unlocked while their porridge cools. When they return they find their porridge has been eaten, their ch
airs chewed up and their beds slept in. “Who’s been sleeping in my bed?” asks the Papa Bear. “It’s that large smelly Hound again you idiot” “I told you to lock the door but you never listen to me” complained Mama Bear. The sequel: The Three Bears Go To Divorce Court.Snow White: A vain queen leaves her beautiful young rival to die in the forest where she is rescued by and moves in with seven Hounds. The Queen finds Snow White when she follows a suspiciously large delivery of Febreze and tries to kill her with a poisoned apple. But
before Snow White can eat the apple it is stolen by a Hound upon whose cast iron stomach it has no effect. Snow White becomes exhausted with all the stench and the cleaning involved in keeping house for the Hounds and takes off with the first handsome prince who turns up. The vain queen asks her mirror “Mirror Mirror on the Wall, Who is the Fairest of them All? “We Are!’ bay the seven Hounds in the mirror.Anyway with all this rain it’s been a pretty uneventful week—although I was awarded a new large stuffed dog to assuage the boredom and there was more baking to stick my nose into. And I did manage force down a record breaking 15 cups of kibble on Sunday which gave Maria an opportunity to eventually demonstrate her prodigious skill in one handed, one bag large pile poop scooping. It is a skill much envied by Elizabeth who has yet to master this essential art. But bad weather or no, a Hound has to keep his strength up especially if he wishes to retain his ability to pull with the force of a tractor beam. And speaking of tractor beams, a new Star Trek movie opened today. I am a big fan of Star Trek as we Hounds are nothing if not enterprising
Hound Trek
These are the voyages of the Hound Ship Enterprise, its five year mission to explore new worl
ds, seek out new life, new civilizations and new stuff to chew up and to boldly split infinitives and go where no one (with good reason) has gone before but which will result in high grossing movies and TV shows.James T. Hound: Where is my crew?
Spock: Here we are Captain. I’m your first officer.
James T. Hound: I’ve never seen a Hound with pointy ears before.
Spock: All Vulcans have pointy ears, even the Hounds.
Dr: I’m Leonard McCoy but everyone calls me Bones.
James T. Hound: What a delightful name! When I was at Starfleet Academy everyone used to call me “Bras” but of course now that I am a Starfleet Officer you can only call me that in private.
Engineer: Aye Captain. I’m Scotty.
James T. Hound: Who let a terrier on board!
Scotty: Nae Captain. I’m called that because my name is Montgomery Scott. Also in the spirit of national stereotyping that pervades Starfleet I am a Scottish engineer. Ensign Sulu that Asian chap over there does all the math on the bridge, Ensign Chekov has the only Russian name anyone’s ever heard of and he plays chess and is very emotional. Lieutenant Uhura is a hot African intergalactic telephone operator. And there is always an expendable clean cut American male ensign who no one has ever heard of and who is going to get killed. But the main thing is that no matter how stereotyped we are we all unite against our enemies.
James T. Hound: The Klingons?
Scotty: No. The cats. We intend to boldly chase them where no Hound has ever chased before.
James T. Hound: Well our first mission is not against the cats. It seems that the Romulans are digging a huge hole into the planet Vulcan and are going to destroy it by putting brown matter in the hole.
Spock: But isn’t that what we Hounds do all the time?
James T. Ho
und: Yes, I know. But this brown matter explodes. Bones: Why are the Romulans always running around destroying things?
James T. Hound: No one actually knows. They just do. Perhaps they like being villains—it certainly gets them attention.
Bones: But do we have to always correct them? Perhaps if we simply ignored their bad behavior or redirected their attention to something more positive? Maybe if they had some rawhides to chew on they wouldn’t blow up so many planets.
James T. Hound: Well if you had your head in a fully loaded garbage bin would you stop if you were
ignored or if someone offered you a rawhide or a squeaky toy? Bones: I see your point Captain. I guess gratuitously blowing up planets is in their genes.
James T. Hound: Anyway, we will use our tractor beam to pull them away from Vulcan…
Crew: Hurray! We love using the tractor beam!
James T. Hound: Yes I know. We all do. Anyway then we will board the vessel with our Phasers set to “knock over” and release clouds of debilitating gas. Then a special commando team, as directed by Engineer Scott, will lift their legs all over crucial bits of the anti matter engines and transport back here before the engine explodes. Any questions?
Scotty: Will there by any cats involved?
James T. Hound: No. Are you sure you’re not a terrier?
Spock: Can we
raid the Romulan’s kitchen first? James T. Hound: Sadly there won’t be time. But if we succeed I’ve arranged shore leave on the pleasure planet of Rigel Laundry Hamper Alpha.
I think I would have made a very fine captain of a starship as I make a very fine captain of the couch. And I am fortunate in having a very able crew who can be forced, manipulated, coerced, wheedled and charmed into obeying my wishes which are truly my commands.
It’s now time for us to pop over to the Wimsey Institute of Houndish Art where all this wet weather
has influenced my choice of this week’s art: The Umbrellas (Pierre-Auguste Renoir 1881-86, National Gallery, London). Now this is a very unique painting (notice the lengthy dates of the painting) because Renoir originally started it in 1881 when he was still painting in the Impressionist style. Subsequently he became disillusioned with the impressionism for which he is best known and spent the rest of his life trying to define his style. In 1886 he picked up the painting again and repainted the figure to our left in a crisper more classically oriented style—he had been looking at French neoclassical paintings at the time—and with a slightly duller palette. Very interesting. But not half so interesting as when a magnificent Hound has been inserted into this wet Parisian street scene! Notice how several of the figures are looking at him with great approbation. Perhaps they are admiring his ingenuity in keeping himself dry with his own umbrella. The Hound presents a charming and unifying focal point for this otherwise dualistic picture. Wimsey’s Umbrella.Well, I think that about wraps it up for this soggy week. I am off to do an un-rain dance.
Until next time,
Wimsey, Starfleet Captain of the Upper West Side
Friday, May 1, 2009
Wimsey's Blog: Diary of a Manhattan Bloodhound #117
Entry #117
May 1, 2009
Hello Everyone. It’s me, Wimsey, wishing you a Happy May Day from the festive confines of my apartment(s) on New York City’s Upper West Side. My human Maria was feeling under the weather this week so I have been spending a few days at my other apartment—that of her friend Elizabeth, where I am treated like the Great Hound King that I am. Of course coping with me when one is perfectly on top of the weather is tough enough so when my human is feeling the least bit peaky I am packed off to my alternative Palais de Hound whose view over Riverside Park allows me to keep tabs on all the canine comings and goings. And every morning when I am in residence (I think perhaps they should fly a standard over Elizabeth’s building just like they do for the Queen of England) we conduct a proper roy
al Levee:
The Levee of Wimsey I, The Hound King of Manhattan
4 am: The Pre-Levee: His Majesty conducts vigorous and acoustically robust ear flapping activities. This is to alert the soundly sleeping Court (Elizabeth) that dawn is nigh and that they shouldn’t get too comfortable before the actual levee begins. Lest the sentiment go unnoticed, His Majesty repairs to his blue enameled china Chopard water dish and consumes its contents in an equally acoustically robust manner.
7:30am: The Ceremonial Snuffling of the Face: His Majesty gently awakens the Court in time honored Hound fashion by snuffling her face with his enormous cold and wet nose, while soft drooly wrinkles envelop the face and make a delightful contrast to His Majest
y’s stiff facial bristles.
7:32 am: The Ascending of the Bed: Having successfully completed the Ceremonial Snuffling and been rewarded by the appropriate squeals of delight, His Majesty proceeds to step regally onto the bed itself whereupon he sits upon the Court and graciously allows himself to be given his Morning Scratching.
7:32 am (continued): The Morning Scratching: His Majesty is given a thorough scratching whilst sitting facing the park so that the royal nares can suck in the incoming Riverside Park breeze.
7:37 am: The Ejection of the Court and Assumption of The Divine Right of Bed: The Morning Scratching having been completed to the satisfaction of His Majesty, he gently encourages the Court to leave the Royal Bed and prepare for the Royal Morning Park Walk. 
He subsequently assumes his rightful place among the bed’s fluffy blankets and pillows.
8:00 am: The Leashing (attempt 1): In the interval required for the court to assume raiment appropriate for the Royal Morning Park Walk (LL Bean, Couturier to the Court of Wimsey I) his Majesty falls into a deep and restful sleep amongst the fluffy blankets and pillows of the royal bed and is no longer in the mood for the Royal Morning Park Walk. The Court uses the inducement of a biscuit placed under the royal nose, but to no avail.
8:10 am The Leashing (attempt 2): His Majesty is now full cognizant of the turn things are taking and greets the second approach of the collars and leashes with a roll over on the royal back and a demand for a Royal Belly Rub. The Court, ever hopeful that compliance will ultimately result in preparing His Majesty for The Leashing necessary to the Royal Morning Park Walk, rubs his Majesty’s Belly in the manner most gratifying to His Majesty.
8:20 am The Leashing (attempt 3): The Court, having proffered biscuits and belly rubs is now forced to take stronger measures for the good of His Majesty’s eliminatory systems, which would
not be served by a Royal Lie In. The Great Head is laboriously lifted and the Royal Collar fastened about the Royal Neck. The Royal Leash is attached and gentle pressure is applied to encourage His Majesty to descend from the Royal Bed.
825 am: The Royal Elevator Ride: At last the King and Court have exited the Royal Apartments and await the service of the Royal Elevator. Receiving the customary salutation of “Oh no, he’s back!” from the Master of the King’s Elevator the King and his tail are firmly tucked into the Royal Elevator and the King and Court make their way along the Ceremonial Allée (the service entrance) to the street and thence to the Royal Park.
8:30 am The Royal Morning Park Walk: During the King’s two hour Morning Park Walk His Majesty is greeted by His subjects, photographed by various paparazzi and assiduously inspects the condition of his demesne’s abundant plantings and waters them accordingly. The Royal P
oop is achieved and its condition carefully inspected and duly noted for later discussion among the courtiers (when both the King’s courtiers are present the size and condition of the Royal Poop is discussed and debated at great length in the context of other Royal Poops produced that day and on previous days and the size and condition of future poops to be achieved are speculated upon).
10:30 am The Royal Breakfast: His Majesty supervises the preparation of his morning meal with great attention. His Majesty frequently calls into question the need for his scrambled eggs to be cooled in the refrigerator but the Court fears the consequence of a burned royal tongue and its attendant recourse to the costly services of the Royal Physician. The King however quite enjoys the services of the Royal Physician and is always in favor of a visit, except when it results in a finger up his bum or liquid down his ears.
10:45 am: The End of the Levee: The King repairs to the piece of furniture of his choice for a much needed nap. The burdens of kingship weigh heavily upon The King’s small number of neurons. And he needs his beauty sleep to appear before his public appropriately wrinkled and bleary eyed.
Well as you can imagine staying with Elizabeth is quite enjoyable-- at least for me. Yesterday she took me to lunch at the Loeb Boathouse Café and we shared a delicious tuna sandwich much to the delight of the tourists. The really amazing thing was that I actually 
shared like a gentleman and didn’t snatch the sandwich out of her hands in the manner of many of my Houndly brethren. And while I am generally un-Hound like in my attitude towards food—I tend to be somewhat finicky and like to actually engage in mastication—I did find a half of a sandwich lying next to the ball fields and the sight of it awoke my inner Hound—a snatch and a gulp and it was history. My humans were both terribly impressed by the sheer speed and Houndiness of the maneuver and I was all too happy to bolster my Hound credentials in this manner.
But Elizabeth did decide to do one ri
diculous thing during my stay—she bathed me by herself. Wimsey Bath Night was apparently long overdue and I apparently no longer smelled like a Hound; I just stank.
Bob Costas: OK, here we are with one of the most dangerous sports known to man—Solo Wimsey Bathing.
Dick Engberg: And we’re off to a rousing start—Wimsey has apparently smelled the shampoo as it was being prepared and is running around looking very uncooperative indeed.
Bob Costas: That’s right Dick and without a team member to bribe him with turkey and subdue him we’re in for a wild ride.
Dick: Well I see Elizabeth’s lassoed him with a chain and leash and is dragging him into the bathroom.
Bob: Getting him into the bathroom is one thing. Getting him into the tub is another.
Dick: That’s right. But she seems to have forced him into the tub and is employing a body block.
Bob: Oh no. She’s turned on the water and he’s out of the tub!
Dick: Now she’s forced him back in. But can she wet him down?
Bob: She’s got one hand on his leash, one hand on the shower attachment and is using quick body moves to block his egress. It’s kind of like watching a wide receiver trying to get to the goal post while being checked by a defensive linebacker.
Dick: Have you noticed that in the process of wetting Wimsey down Elizabeth has wet herself down as well.
Bob: A sacrifice play Dick. There was no other way.
Dick: Oh no! Wimsey’s made a break for it! He’s out! And he’s flooding the bathroom floor! And he’s just shaken wet hair on the walls and ceiling. Oh my!
Bob: Well, she’s taken hold again and has forced him back in. But she turned on the water and he’s out again!
Dick: How long can this go on! Two super
b athletes in a classic battle of wills. Normally my money would be on the Hound, but I understand the stench has gotten Elizabeth pretty fired up. Especially as Wimsey’s made her bed smell like a swamp.
Bob: OK, she’s shut off the water and is pouring on the soap. She seems to have overlooked the difficulty that hanging onto a soapy leash would entail!
Dick: Your right! The leash has slipped right though her fingers and he’s out again! Now the bathroom is flooded with slippery soapy water and there’s another colossal shake! What an event this is turning out to be. An uncooperative 126lb Hound is one thing but 
a soapy uncooperative 126lb Hound is the pinnacle of sport. To see these two exhausted wet and soapy competitors going at it head to head brings tears to my eyes.
Bob: I think that’s just the soap Wimsey flung in them. But Elizabeth is facing a problem here Dick. Having gotten Wimsey wet and soaped up she seems unable to get him back into the tub. He’s just too slick for her.
Dick: She’s gotten into the tub herself and is trying to haul him in after her. But he’s not budging so I see she is using the push the tush maneuver.
Bob: He’s in! But will he stay in? And can Elizabeth keep from slipping and incurring yet another Hound related injury? But first, a word from our sponsor, The Hospital For Special Surgery.
Well it was all pretty humiliating and to add to the indignity Elizabeth tied my leash to the front door while she cooked my dinner to prevent me from running around and soaking the furniture. My view was that I was wet. I was cheesed off. And I definitely was going to climb up on something. In the end I had to settle for climbing up on Elizabeth. But she was already wet. The only good thing is that the experience is unlikely to be repeated.
Anyway, as I mentioned last week we had three days of hot summer weather so this Sunday we took a very leisurely Central Park walk where mostly I flopped down and looked pathetically hot in spite of the fact that water was continually being brought to me to drink and being dumped on me which was really pretty annoying (although the ladies m
aintain that it is to help cool me down. Personally I think they just like annoying me for a change). But there was a method to my madness—all the flopping and refusing to move, ostensibly because of the heat, meant that a walk that should have taken 1.5 hours took 3 hours instead. My humans always maintain that I am not all that bright, but really I am purposefully unintelligent. Also, since there wasn’t a lot of shade guess who sat in the shady spots and guess who sat in the sun?
Now my ladies are both very fair and fry like shrimp so both were slathered in sun screen. Elizabeth also has sensitive skin so is always on the look out for special sun block—last year’s version had zinc oxide and made her look like she was auditioning for a kabuki play. This year she has new stuff that is fine as long as she doesn’t perspire—then the white cream magically reappears and streaks down her face. Such an attractive look. I’m sure the men will be flocking this summer. But the ladies felt strangely bereft in the weather without any special seasonal hounding clothes or gear to carry so they are thinking about purchasing some hi tech mesh shirts that will help to keep them cool during our adventures and I also might come in for a new lighter weight cooling vest this summer. We should be quite a tableau.
Well this is a long post so I think we will skip our visit to the Wimsey Institute of Houndish Art. In addition to all the other goings on this week I met a raccoon (wasn’t allowed to say hi) and met 
my very first Bracco Italiano—we didn’t have the camera but check out this picture—they kind of look like me! New York is a cosmopolitan city even for canines! And this weekend people will be celebrating Cinco de Mayo and all things Mexican (except the flu).
Until next time,
HRH Wimsey
Friday, March 23, 2007
Wimsey's Blog: Diary of a Manhattan Bloodhound
Entry # 9
March 23, 2007
Hello everyone. It’s me Wimsey. Well it’s been quite a week here in New York—we had a delightful (for me) little icy snowstorm that made my humans wish they had gone ahead and purchased those mountaineering crampons! And then in response to my last post, my human Maria and her friend Elizabeth have been all “Gadzooks, Wimsey would you like to go for a walk?” and “Forsooth Your Houndship, I perceive that the dinner bowl hath arrived” and “Wimsey, you are getting your muddy paws all over my new kirtle” and “Would Sir care for a joust with yon’ Bruno the Rottweiler?” etc. etc. etc. Very funny ladies.
Of course Maria and Elizabeth are completely baffled about why I know so much about the Middle Ages (“How come Wimsey knows what a bilaut is and we don’t?”), especially since interest in the past is not generally a strong suit of those who live in New York. (I have noticed that New Yorkers like to tear down any buildings even vaguely old and put up shiny new ones!). Now in spite of the fact that my humans routinely belittle my intellectual abilities (being thought intellectually challenged has its advantages, as in “Oh, we don’t bother teaching Wimsey not to put his nose in the food, he’s not very bright, you know. He wouldn’t understand.”) when it comes to all things Hound—including my distinguished lineage-- I am a veritable Einstein. Who else has perfected the art of detecting hidden stashes of dirty underwear or exciting piles of recyclables. I am also a master of the strategic use of drool—a particularly valuable skill when I want to call a halt to human activities that require the use of optical surfaces such as eyeglasses or computers (I permit the use of televisions provided I am enthroned in a lap and being scratched)—humans can’t do what they can’t see. Did you know that drool has the enviable property of changing the focal point of a lens, thus making any drool coated surface blurry and useless? Then humans are once again free to focus all their attention on me, where it belongs.
In addition to being an expert on The Optics of Drool, I am also well versed in the application of Newton’s Laws of Motion (of a Hound). My personal favorite is of course Newton’s wildly popular Second Law which states: Net Force equals Mass times Acceleration. This means that if you let me get a running start on my 30 foot leash the net force on your arm will result in a visit to the emergency room. And who can forget Newton’s delightful First Law which states “ a body will remain on the couch until I shove it off” (by the way, it is a myth that Newton discovered gravity when he observed an apple falling from a tree—it was really his bloodhound falling off the couch during a particularly exciting nap that gave him the idea). And of course Newton’s Third Law explains why Elizabeth can never get me off of her lap as every lap ejecting action by her is met by an equal and opposite lap retaining reaction by me!
It has also always been my theory that Newton developed The Calculus whilst attempting to control a charging bloodhound: “Gee I wonder whether it is mathematically possible to describe the rate of change of this Great Hound’s ability to cover ground?”—and presto out popped the first derivative (humans call this velocity, bloodhounds call this fun). Later, after nearly having his arm torn off when his bloodhound charged after a succulent animal, he thought (when he was again capable of thought) “Well I wonder if it is mathematically possible to describe the rate of change of the beast’s velocity when chasing a succulent animal?”—and voila we have the second (and arm dislocating) derivative-- acceleration.
Of course there are other laws of physics which are equally enjoyable, one of my personal favorites being the Body Slamming Equation. This equation states that the amount of damage that I will do to you (kinetic energy) is equal to one half my formidable mass times the velocity with which I am charging—squared! It is because the damage is so dependent on my speed at impact that I am banished to the Tribute Couch for all greeting activities. When I remember. Which, being intellectually challenged, is not that often. Anyway, I guess the take home lesson here is that an accelerating bloodhound is a dangerous bloodhound (yes, even though I do not possess a macho name like my father Stetson or an intimidating breed type like Bruno the Rottweiler, I too sometimes get to be a dangerous character: “ Look there’s Wimsey the Dangerous Accelerating Bloodhound! Run!!!!!”). It is such a shame that the applications to which humans put physics are often tremendously boring-does anyone really care at which point an object will reach the top of a parabolic arc—unless of course they are trying to prevent its interception by a large, determined Hound? I must say that the applications to which we Hounds apply the laws of physics are infinitely more entertaining. Indeed they govern the majority of our activities. We can calculate, for instance, the precise speed of head rotation required to fling drool in someone’s face with enormous accuracy or the precise angle at which to apply our body mass in order to immobilize a small human of known height and weight. I am sure that Newton, and indeed all physicists, must have closely studied The Bloodhound. After all, how else could they know what we know.
But I digress. I was discussing my week, which included not only St. Patrick’s Day, but also my birthday. (Thanks, by the way to all my friends from around the world for their kind wishes and cards!) To kick off the celebrations, I went for pleasant walk in Central Park with Elizabeth (Maria claimed that the preparation of my birthday cake was incompatible with my presence. Of course, Elizabeth claims that all human activities are incompatible with my presence. “Wimsey is incompatible with life as we know it” is how I think she puts it. Now I do agree that it is rather challenging to get anything done when I am either sitting on you or snuffling and tasting the objects in your hand (it is not for nothing that the Wimsey motto is “If you have it, I want it.”). Or flinging drool. Or stealing your underpants, etc. etc. etc. But it’s all part of the fun of living with a bloodhound. It is an enduring mystery to me as to why there are not more of us about.
Anyway, after closely inspecting my face in the mirror to see if my wrinkles have finally deepened—I wonder if plastic surgeons know how to create more of them—it’s never too early to think about having a little work done, especially here in image conscious New York (“Look there’s Wimsey, he’s looking awfully smooth, poor chap.” “I know and he’s looking rather thin too, don’t you think. I know it is shallow of me, but I just can’t abide the sight of a smooth, lithe bloodhound. It’s just so unaesthetic. Especially when they can do such wonderful things these days”). Well on the subject of trying to gain weight, I must say that Nanook’s cream cake was enormously helpful as well as being delicious—a perfect 10 on the Wimsey Drool Production Index, if I may say so (my humans dread the perfect 10). Not that I would have anything to do with the cake part of course. I just amused myself by methodically denuding the entire cake of all its whipped cream, much to the consternation of my humans. Being a finicky eater is right up there with being intellectually challenged in the manipulation of humans department. (“Oh no, Wimsey’s not eating! Quick, run and get him a pizza—he likes those.”).
Anyway, the birthday was great—whipped cream, pizza, toys cards from friends and a long session of jamming my elbows into Elizabeth’s sensitive bits while being scratched: Maria: “Don’t shriek so much Elizabeth! It’s Wimsey’s birthday and after all he can’t help doing silly things—he’s not very bright you know.”
Until next time,
Wimsey
March 23, 2007
Hello everyone. It’s me Wimsey. Well it’s been quite a week here in New York—we had a delightful (for me) little icy snowstorm that made my humans wish they had gone ahead and purchased those mountaineering crampons! And then in response to my last post, my human Maria and her friend Elizabeth have been all “Gadzooks, Wimsey would you like to go for a walk?” and “Forsooth Your Houndship, I perceive that the dinner bowl hath arrived” and “Wimsey, you are getting your muddy paws all over my new kirtle” and “Would Sir care for a joust with yon’ Bruno the Rottweiler?” etc. etc. etc. Very funny ladies.
Of course Maria and Elizabeth are completely baffled about why I know so much about the Middle Ages (“How come Wimsey knows what a bilaut is and we don’t?”), especially since interest in the past is not generally a strong suit of those who live in New York. (I have noticed that New Yorkers like to tear down any buildings even vaguely old and put up shiny new ones!). Now in spite of the fact that my humans routinely belittle my intellectual abilities (being thought intellectually challenged has its advantages, as in “Oh, we don’t bother teaching Wimsey not to put his nose in the food, he’s not very bright, you know. He wouldn’t understand.”) when it comes to all things Hound—including my distinguished lineage-- I am a veritable Einstein. Who else has perfected the art of detecting hidden stashes of dirty underwear or exciting piles of recyclables. I am also a master of the strategic use of drool—a particularly valuable skill when I want to call a halt to human activities that require the use of optical surfaces such as eyeglasses or computers (I permit the use of televisions provided I am enthroned in a lap and being scratched)—humans can’t do what they can’t see. Did you know that drool has the enviable property of changing the focal point of a lens, thus making any drool coated surface blurry and useless? Then humans are once again free to focus all their attention on me, where it belongs.
In addition to being an expert on The Optics of Drool, I am also well versed in the application of Newton’s Laws of Motion (of a Hound). My personal favorite is of course Newton’s wildly popular Second Law which states: Net Force equals Mass times Acceleration. This means that if you let me get a running start on my 30 foot leash the net force on your arm will result in a visit to the emergency room. And who can forget Newton’s delightful First Law which states “ a body will remain on the couch until I shove it off” (by the way, it is a myth that Newton discovered gravity when he observed an apple falling from a tree—it was really his bloodhound falling off the couch during a particularly exciting nap that gave him the idea). And of course Newton’s Third Law explains why Elizabeth can never get me off of her lap as every lap ejecting action by her is met by an equal and opposite lap retaining reaction by me!
It has also always been my theory that Newton developed The Calculus whilst attempting to control a charging bloodhound: “Gee I wonder whether it is mathematically possible to describe the rate of change of this Great Hound’s ability to cover ground?”—and presto out popped the first derivative (humans call this velocity, bloodhounds call this fun). Later, after nearly having his arm torn off when his bloodhound charged after a succulent animal, he thought (when he was again capable of thought) “Well I wonder if it is mathematically possible to describe the rate of change of the beast’s velocity when chasing a succulent animal?”—and voila we have the second (and arm dislocating) derivative-- acceleration.
Of course there are other laws of physics which are equally enjoyable, one of my personal favorites being the Body Slamming Equation. This equation states that the amount of damage that I will do to you (kinetic energy) is equal to one half my formidable mass times the velocity with which I am charging—squared! It is because the damage is so dependent on my speed at impact that I am banished to the Tribute Couch for all greeting activities. When I remember. Which, being intellectually challenged, is not that often. Anyway, I guess the take home lesson here is that an accelerating bloodhound is a dangerous bloodhound (yes, even though I do not possess a macho name like my father Stetson or an intimidating breed type like Bruno the Rottweiler, I too sometimes get to be a dangerous character: “ Look there’s Wimsey the Dangerous Accelerating Bloodhound! Run!!!!!”). It is such a shame that the applications to which humans put physics are often tremendously boring-does anyone really care at which point an object will reach the top of a parabolic arc—unless of course they are trying to prevent its interception by a large, determined Hound? I must say that the applications to which we Hounds apply the laws of physics are infinitely more entertaining. Indeed they govern the majority of our activities. We can calculate, for instance, the precise speed of head rotation required to fling drool in someone’s face with enormous accuracy or the precise angle at which to apply our body mass in order to immobilize a small human of known height and weight. I am sure that Newton, and indeed all physicists, must have closely studied The Bloodhound. After all, how else could they know what we know.
But I digress. I was discussing my week, which included not only St. Patrick’s Day, but also my birthday. (Thanks, by the way to all my friends from around the world for their kind wishes and cards!) To kick off the celebrations, I went for pleasant walk in Central Park with Elizabeth (Maria claimed that the preparation of my birthday cake was incompatible with my presence. Of course, Elizabeth claims that all human activities are incompatible with my presence. “Wimsey is incompatible with life as we know it” is how I think she puts it. Now I do agree that it is rather challenging to get anything done when I am either sitting on you or snuffling and tasting the objects in your hand (it is not for nothing that the Wimsey motto is “If you have it, I want it.”). Or flinging drool. Or stealing your underpants, etc. etc. etc. But it’s all part of the fun of living with a bloodhound. It is an enduring mystery to me as to why there are not more of us about.
Anyway, after closely inspecting my face in the mirror to see if my wrinkles have finally deepened—I wonder if plastic surgeons know how to create more of them—it’s never too early to think about having a little work done, especially here in image conscious New York (“Look there’s Wimsey, he’s looking awfully smooth, poor chap.” “I know and he’s looking rather thin too, don’t you think. I know it is shallow of me, but I just can’t abide the sight of a smooth, lithe bloodhound. It’s just so unaesthetic. Especially when they can do such wonderful things these days”). Well on the subject of trying to gain weight, I must say that Nanook’s cream cake was enormously helpful as well as being delicious—a perfect 10 on the Wimsey Drool Production Index, if I may say so (my humans dread the perfect 10). Not that I would have anything to do with the cake part of course. I just amused myself by methodically denuding the entire cake of all its whipped cream, much to the consternation of my humans. Being a finicky eater is right up there with being intellectually challenged in the manipulation of humans department. (“Oh no, Wimsey’s not eating! Quick, run and get him a pizza—he likes those.”).
Anyway, the birthday was great—whipped cream, pizza, toys cards from friends and a long session of jamming my elbows into Elizabeth’s sensitive bits while being scratched: Maria: “Don’t shriek so much Elizabeth! It’s Wimsey’s birthday and after all he can’t help doing silly things—he’s not very bright you know.”
Until next time,
Wimsey
Friday, March 16, 2007
Wimsey's Blog: Diary of a Manhattan Bloodhound
Entry # 8
March 16, 2007
Hello Everyone! Wimsey here. Or maybe I should say O’Wimsey, as St. Patrick’s Day is once more upon us. For anyone reading this who does not live in New York City, it really is true that on St. Patrick’s Day everyone is Irish (even bloodhounds) which means that everyone is entitled to celebrate, which they do. A lot. And then some. And then some more. In short, it is a very festive day. Whilst there is no serious talk of dyeing me green this year, I have informed my human Maria that I will be wearing my elegant green sequined cravat in honor of the occasion. I make a very handsome Irishhound if I do say so myself. And of course Maria’s friend Elizabeth is already looking forward to the nutrition-enhancing drool with which I intend to fortify her St. Patty’s day libations.
Now however, laudable St, Patrick was—protecting bloodhounds from snakes and all that, I want to propose that November 3rd--St. Hubert’s Day-- should also be a holiday. For those of you who do not actually spend their evenings curled up with “The History of The Bloodhound,” you may not be aware of this, but my ancestors were brought from the Holy Land during the Crusades and deposited at the Monastery of St. Hubert in the Forest of the Ardennes. This was apparently a wholly appropriate maneuver as St. Hubert is the patron saint of hunters. But can you just imagine the shock and awe (not to mention mess) that my relatives must have caused:
Abbott: What on earth are they?
Crusader: We don’t know, actually. We stole them from the Paynim on general principle. We were hoping that the learned monks here could figure it out.
Abbott: Did they lose a lot of weight on the way over or something? They seem excessively baggy.
Crusader: No, I think they come like that. We don’t exactly know why anyone would want something that looks that way, but you know, these Paynim are a strange lot.
Abbott: Gadzooks! The beast seems to have flung some strange fluid onto my cassock.
Crusader: Ooops, I forgot to warn you about that. They seem to do it quite a lot. Why the Sieur de Baskerville alone has had three embroidered silk bilauts ruined. He was mighty peeved, I can tell you! But then the beasts found a juicy boar, so we decided that the fluid was a magic embrocation of sorts. I must say, the stuff does rather get into everything. We found that only a mounted knight in full body armor is truly protected. But then we started worrying about rust factor you know. And the horses weren’t happy.
Abbott: And what is that strange odor?
Crusader: That’s them again, I’m afraid. They are a rather pungent lot. They also tend to get a bit loud when riled up.
Abbott: My son, while we monks of St. Hubert are always appreciative of a small tribute or two, the munificence of your gift of these beasts overwhelms us. We find that this gift is simply too generous to be compatible with our humble monastic lifestyle.
Crusader: Well, we thought you might see it like that. The thing is, we think we can scam the King of France into thinking that they are rare and precious—think of the privileges that we could extort, er, I mean the gratitude that would come our way—if you were the only source of supply of these desirable animals. Here’s the deal: we heroic knights will take care of the demand side of things—you know, creating the right buzz at Court and all that, while you monks take care of actually raising a supply of the creatures.
Abbott: That is asking a lot my son. However, who are we humble monks to deny the King of France a prize that he so richly deserves. Might I suggest, however, that you alert the royal tailors to lay in vast quantities of additional cloth. I have a feeling His Majesty may be needing it.
And of course, the rest, as they say is history. The French king took the bait hook, line, and drool and bloodhounds became the ne plus ultra of medieval chic:
Duke of Burgundy: I hear the French king has acquired a strange new animal. I must have one too.
Conte d’Anjou: I don’t know if that is wise your grace. I hear they are loud, smelly and cover everything within a several cubits radius in a strange, sticky humour. Also, the monks of St. Hubert are charging a fortune for them and they are refusing to sell them at all unless you have connections.
Duke of Burgundy: If the French King has one then the Duke of Burgundy must have one. Also, the Duchess has been nagging me about it. Apparently she thinks they’re sweet. She also has it on good authority from the Queen’s bedchamber that Her Majesty’s youthful appearance is due to smearing the animal’s secretions on her face. Anyway, even the Conte d’Artois has one.
Conte d’Anjou: Yes, but that was only because he won it in a poker game from the Duke of the Aquitaine.
And so the fact that my kind could only be owned at the highest echelons of society, were hideously expensive to buy and extraordinarily inconvenient to keep, made us the acme of fashion (and people wonder why I think humans are foolish). And in those days, it wasn’t even necessary to dress up in little pink clothes either! Sometimes, the old ways are best.
Well, I don’t like to brag, but because of the Bloodhound, (or the Chien de St. Hubert as we came to be called—I am sure the Abbott was thrilled), the good Monks of St. Hubert prospered and built many fine buildings to inspire the faithful, the textile trade and consequently the entire economy flourished, people far and wide were well fed because of the increased availability of juicy boar, and the Queen of France looked young.
Well, that’s just where things stood when William the Conqueror had the brilliant idea of foisting us upon the English. It is my belief that the sight of us confused the Anglo Saxon armies (“Forsooth, what the hell is that!!!) and that bloodhounds are responsible in large measure for Duke William’s victory at the Battle of Hastings. From there, of course we jumped the pond (baying our way across the Atlantic, no doubt) to America where we established ourselves in great style. And now we hunt juicy boar in Central Park.
But I digress. We were speaking of holidays. Think of all the extra fun a new holiday would engender! On St. Hubert’s Day people could drink lots of beer, fling drool, bay and engage in the wearin o’ the black and tan (a lot more tasteful and flattering a color than green, I think). But why stop there. In addition to St. Hubert’s Day, I believe that our annual roster of holidays should include National Bloodhound Appreciation Day, take a Bloodhound to Work Day and Walk a Bloodhound for Six Hours Day. Also, a parade up Fifth Avenue would not be amiss. (“Grand Marshall Wimsey is leading the Band of Baying Bloodhounds on a nine hour march through the boroughs of New York”). As bloodhounds are actually responsible for the Norman Conquest, and, as a consequence, much of Western Civilization, I hardly think it too much to ask.
But of course the most exciting holiday (from my point of view at least) is the fact that March 19th is my birthday! Well, on hearing about the date of my birth it was all “Did you know that Wimsey was a Pisces when you agreed to have him?” and “Was that really wise; Pisces are so difficult; they have a very artistic temperament that is so hard to deal with” and “Is that why Wimsey sings so loudly?” etc., etc., etc. But I don’t care (do I ever?)-- I will finally be three and I won’t have to cope with the human fear that I am going to get even bigger. On the other hand, it has become apparent to me that show judges like a rather meaty looking bloodhound, so in the spirit of cooperation for which I am well known, I have instructed Maria to make me the same cream cake that that famous gourmand Nanook had for his birthday. Whatever made him that big, I want it too! (“If Nanook the Newfy has it, then Wimsey th
e Bloodhound must have it”—some things are timeless, don’t you think. Although I must say, I think I will pass on all Nanook’s bath paraphernalia. ((As an aside, Maria and Elizabeth have a plan to bath me in Elizabeth’s bath tub. Stay tuned for that one)).
Well, that’s all for this week. The juicy boar of Central Park await. I hope you enjoyed the history lesson. We Wimseys are very illustrious you know.
Until next week,
Wimsey
Friday, March 9, 2007
Wimsey's Blog: Diary of a Manhattan Bloodhound
Entry # 7
March 9, 2007
Hello everyone. It’s me, Wimsey. Well, I am here to tell you that sometimes it is just so much fun being me that it should be illegal! I don’t know—can they outlaw me like they do some of the other breeds?
“Your Honor we move to prohibit The Bloodhound in the County of New York—he is just having way too much fun and, as a consequence, causing a public nuisance and a breach of the peace. The endlessly fun seeking, attention getting and single mindedly disruptive Bloodhound does, we respectfully submit, contribute to the erosion of the tax base of our heretofore fiscally sound Metropolis. We declare that The Bloodhound willfully impairs, impedes and hampers all manner of economic activity. Previously upright and tax paying citizens cease to engage in income (and therefore tax) producing activities whilst they ogle, fondle and generally expend precious tax generating time upon the non-tax generating Bloodhound. Your Honor, it is of the utmost concern to us that The Bloodhound has even managed to strike at the very heart of this City’s fiscal foundation, to wit, Wall Street. We are grieved and alarmed to report that the enormous tax revenue—to which we all looked so forward every year-- from a formerly respected Wall Street stock analyst has completely vanished in the face of the competing charms of clickering the aforementioned Bloodhound. We cannot, in good conscience, permit the integrity of the financial markets (and our tax base) to be undermined by the pernicious influence of The Bloodhound. We therefore move for his entire banishment, body, drool and all from the precincts of our normally industrious and tax producing polis. We find that the temptation to fiscally unsound fun is simply far too great to permit of his continued existence amongst us.”
Hmm..breed specific legislation (isn’t being a breedist politically incorrect?)—all the more reason for me to seriously consider a run for Bloodhound in Chief! (Bizzy would make a charming First Bloodhound, don’t you think)?
Anyway, it is only due to my famously good temperament that I am in such a good mood. This week it was my human Maria who was sick. Can humans really be this susceptible to microbial invasion or is this yet another misguided attempt to modify my behavior? I mean this week it was all ‘Oh Wimsey, stop bouncing up and down on my stomach like that it makes me throw up” and such. Of course the risk of a human throwing up is absolutely no deterrent to me-- human effluvia of all sorts is deliciously fragrant and often quite tasty. But putting my sensuous nature aside, being a bloodhound is just plain fun. When I go out for a walk there are such squeals of “How beautiful!” and “How cute!" and “How adorable!” And of course Maria and Elizabeth (a friend of hers, whose current canine activities are apparently an enduring source of disappointment to the city’s tax authorities) know that there is not the remotest possibility that these comments are directed at them. Last year, even Joan Rivers-- that queen of red carpet critique-- stopped traffic on Park Avenue pointed in my direction and loudly proclaimed: “Fabulous! Fabulous! Fabulous!” Unless I am very much mistaken, I don’t think it was Elizabeth’s baggy, drool covered ensemble that attracted her admiration. And this week an obviously astute upper west side young man eyeballed me, gestured grandly to his friends and declared resoundingly and repeatedly “Now that is Fashion! (So I guess I can relax about black and tan going out of style any time soon). And of course it was also quite a lot of fun last weekend when Maria nipped into Starbucks to get us all some coffee and emerged to find Elizabeth and I surrounded by fascinated men. And trust me; it wasn’t Elizabeth who was fascinating them. I am worried that my humans are going to develop a complex:
Dr. Wimsey: So tell me, Maria, when did you start to have these feelings that people were ignoring you?
Maria: When I got you.
Dr. Wimsey: Well, yes, I can see how that could happen. I am really so much more exciting and interesting than you are. You are very perceptive. Ah, I see our 45 minute hour is up. You can leave my $200 fee with my receptionist, Elizabeth --she used to be a famous stock analyst you know, such a sad case!
Anyway, when we walk down the street no one yells out Maria or Elizabeth, only Wimsey. No wonder humans are all in therapy (except sad to say, mine, who I believe would benefit enormously by working through the fact that they will always exist in my large, hound shaped shadow).
In addition to spending lots of time in therapy, humans here in New York City are famous for spending the GDP of entire nations on gym memberships, Pilates and yoga classes, diet books, exercise equipment, etc. But really, what they actually need is a bloodhound. Now in addition to getting a lot of public flak about the existence of my testicles poor Maria is often assailed by people questioning my suitability for life in New York (really of course, they should question her sanity, but that is a whole other issue). Little do these interlocutors realize that they are addressing The Wimsey Total Mind-Body Fitness System. Kind of like a canine Bowflex, I do it all.
The Wimsey Way to Total Mind-Body Fitness rests on three sound principles: physical health, diet and hygiene and mental health. All backed up by an astonishingly simple, yet effective set of incentives.
First, the Wimsey System builds endurance: my humans quickly learn that if they have any hope of their possessions remaining intact, they will walk me for as many hours as they can stand up (I, of course, being a well bred bloodhound, can walk indefinitely). And the beauty of it is that the effects of the walks are never cumulative — each day is a new day-- the Wimsey odometer resets to zero each morning and the walking must begin all over again. But these walks do not just breed endurance. No, they are also aerobic since at random intervals I take off after some attractive odor and the only way to stay upright is to run along with me! Never underestimate the fear of humiliation of being dragged behind a conspicuously baying bloodhound!
Next, let us discuss the upper body, particularly core strength. In addition to my prowess at marching and charging, I also posses a powerful tow. Again, in order to maintain an upright posture, leash holders must engage the abdominals inwards and upwards whilst mobilizing the arms and entire upper torso. For really, really long periods of time. It’s six pack abs the Wimsey Way. It is such a shame that gyms simply cannot provide the appropriate physical penalties for failure to perform. I guess they feel that threatening to hurt their clients and shred their possessions would not be revenue enhancing—also possibly illegal--, but let me tell you, it is highly motivating.
Now let us proceed to the frequently neglected issue of hygiene. I have previously discussed how I effortlessly trained the slobby Elizabeth to be neat, but few people know me in my equally important guise as the Bath Inspector. As a committed trainer I personally, supervise the ablutions of the humans I have caused to be drenched in sweat. Using my keen nose I instantly detect any unwashed spots and alert the human to their presence by licking them. In addition, I conduct spot quality control checks throughout the bath process to make sure the human is (or was) completely clean. I also test the water with my muzzle at regular intervals and dispense some moisturizing drool into it. And after the bath, one should not even think about getting away with wearing a used t-shirt or second day underwear. My nose instantly attaches to the delicious odor emanating thereof, conspicuously calling attention to the offending garment—shame can be such a powerful weapon in modifying human behavior! And much faster than a clicker. And diet is even easier to modify than hygiene. Food becomes remarkably unappetizing to humans when mixed with bloodhound secretions.
Finally, we must discuss the mental health portion of my program. Let me just say, that The Wimsey System admits of no negativity. The other day, Elizabeth was sitting on the couch upbraiding me for some perceived (and no doubt wholly imaginary) failure so I calmly stuck my tongue in her mouth. At this she instantly ceased speaking, no doubt reminded of the potentially pernicious (if not to say infective) nature of vocalizing negative thoughts.
And of course throughout the entire day, I keep my humans well hydrated. By dint of sticking my entire muzzle and ears into my water bowl I find I can transport quite a quantity of water to deposit on my humans. My thoughtful actions keep them cool and moist throughout the day. An excellent use of the many facial folds and wrinkles for which we bloodhounds are justifiably famous.
Anyway, I am looking into promoting The Wimsey Total Mind-Body Fitness System on the Home Shopping Network. Elizabeth says I need the taxable income.
Until next time,
Wimsey
March 9, 2007
Hello everyone. It’s me, Wimsey. Well, I am here to tell you that sometimes it is just so much fun being me that it should be illegal! I don’t know—can they outlaw me like they do some of the other breeds?
“Your Honor we move to prohibit The Bloodhound in the County of New York—he is just having way too much fun and, as a consequence, causing a public nuisance and a breach of the peace. The endlessly fun seeking, attention getting and single mindedly disruptive Bloodhound does, we respectfully submit, contribute to the erosion of the tax base of our heretofore fiscally sound Metropolis. We declare that The Bloodhound willfully impairs, impedes and hampers all manner of economic activity. Previously upright and tax paying citizens cease to engage in income (and therefore tax) producing activities whilst they ogle, fondle and generally expend precious tax generating time upon the non-tax generating Bloodhound. Your Honor, it is of the utmost concern to us that The Bloodhound has even managed to strike at the very heart of this City’s fiscal foundation, to wit, Wall Street. We are grieved and alarmed to report that the enormous tax revenue—to which we all looked so forward every year-- from a formerly respected Wall Street stock analyst has completely vanished in the face of the competing charms of clickering the aforementioned Bloodhound. We cannot, in good conscience, permit the integrity of the financial markets (and our tax base) to be undermined by the pernicious influence of The Bloodhound. We therefore move for his entire banishment, body, drool and all from the precincts of our normally industrious and tax producing polis. We find that the temptation to fiscally unsound fun is simply far too great to permit of his continued existence amongst us.”
Hmm..breed specific legislation (isn’t being a breedist politically incorrect?)—all the more reason for me to seriously consider a run for Bloodhound in Chief! (Bizzy would make a charming First Bloodhound, don’t you think)?
Anyway, it is only due to my famously good temperament that I am in such a good mood. This week it was my human Maria who was sick. Can humans really be this susceptible to microbial invasion or is this yet another misguided attempt to modify my behavior? I mean this week it was all ‘Oh Wimsey, stop bouncing up and down on my stomach like that it makes me throw up” and such. Of course the risk of a human throwing up is absolutely no deterrent to me-- human effluvia of all sorts is deliciously fragrant and often quite tasty. But putting my sensuous nature aside, being a bloodhound is just plain fun. When I go out for a walk there are such squeals of “How beautiful!” and “How cute!" and “How adorable!” And of course Maria and Elizabeth (a friend of hers, whose current canine activities are apparently an enduring source of disappointment to the city’s tax authorities) know that there is not the remotest possibility that these comments are directed at them. Last year, even Joan Rivers-- that queen of red carpet critique-- stopped traffic on Park Avenue pointed in my direction and loudly proclaimed: “Fabulous! Fabulous! Fabulous!” Unless I am very much mistaken, I don’t think it was Elizabeth’s baggy, drool covered ensemble that attracted her admiration. And this week an obviously astute upper west side young man eyeballed me, gestured grandly to his friends and declared resoundingly and repeatedly “Now that is Fashion! (So I guess I can relax about black and tan going out of style any time soon). And of course it was also quite a lot of fun last weekend when Maria nipped into Starbucks to get us all some coffee and emerged to find Elizabeth and I surrounded by fascinated men. And trust me; it wasn’t Elizabeth who was fascinating them. I am worried that my humans are going to develop a complex:
Dr. Wimsey: So tell me, Maria, when did you start to have these feelings that people were ignoring you?
Maria: When I got you.
Dr. Wimsey: Well, yes, I can see how that could happen. I am really so much more exciting and interesting than you are. You are very perceptive. Ah, I see our 45 minute hour is up. You can leave my $200 fee with my receptionist, Elizabeth --she used to be a famous stock analyst you know, such a sad case!
Anyway, when we walk down the street no one yells out Maria or Elizabeth, only Wimsey. No wonder humans are all in therapy (except sad to say, mine, who I believe would benefit enormously by working through the fact that they will always exist in my large, hound shaped shadow).
In addition to spending lots of time in therapy, humans here in New York City are famous for spending the GDP of entire nations on gym memberships, Pilates and yoga classes, diet books, exercise equipment, etc. But really, what they actually need is a bloodhound. Now in addition to getting a lot of public flak about the existence of my testicles poor Maria is often assailed by people questioning my suitability for life in New York (really of course, they should question her sanity, but that is a whole other issue). Little do these interlocutors realize that they are addressing The Wimsey Total Mind-Body Fitness System. Kind of like a canine Bowflex, I do it all.
The Wimsey Way to Total Mind-Body Fitness rests on three sound principles: physical health, diet and hygiene and mental health. All backed up by an astonishingly simple, yet effective set of incentives.
First, the Wimsey System builds endurance: my humans quickly learn that if they have any hope of their possessions remaining intact, they will walk me for as many hours as they can stand up (I, of course, being a well bred bloodhound, can walk indefinitely). And the beauty of it is that the effects of the walks are never cumulative — each day is a new day-- the Wimsey odometer resets to zero each morning and the walking must begin all over again. But these walks do not just breed endurance. No, they are also aerobic since at random intervals I take off after some attractive odor and the only way to stay upright is to run along with me! Never underestimate the fear of humiliation of being dragged behind a conspicuously baying bloodhound!
Next, let us discuss the upper body, particularly core strength. In addition to my prowess at marching and charging, I also posses a powerful tow. Again, in order to maintain an upright posture, leash holders must engage the abdominals inwards and upwards whilst mobilizing the arms and entire upper torso. For really, really long periods of time. It’s six pack abs the Wimsey Way. It is such a shame that gyms simply cannot provide the appropriate physical penalties for failure to perform. I guess they feel that threatening to hurt their clients and shred their possessions would not be revenue enhancing—also possibly illegal--, but let me tell you, it is highly motivating.
Now let us proceed to the frequently neglected issue of hygiene. I have previously discussed how I effortlessly trained the slobby Elizabeth to be neat, but few people know me in my equally important guise as the Bath Inspector. As a committed trainer I personally, supervise the ablutions of the humans I have caused to be drenched in sweat. Using my keen nose I instantly detect any unwashed spots and alert the human to their presence by licking them. In addition, I conduct spot quality control checks throughout the bath process to make sure the human is (or was) completely clean. I also test the water with my muzzle at regular intervals and dispense some moisturizing drool into it. And after the bath, one should not even think about getting away with wearing a used t-shirt or second day underwear. My nose instantly attaches to the delicious odor emanating thereof, conspicuously calling attention to the offending garment—shame can be such a powerful weapon in modifying human behavior! And much faster than a clicker. And diet is even easier to modify than hygiene. Food becomes remarkably unappetizing to humans when mixed with bloodhound secretions.
Finally, we must discuss the mental health portion of my program. Let me just say, that The Wimsey System admits of no negativity. The other day, Elizabeth was sitting on the couch upbraiding me for some perceived (and no doubt wholly imaginary) failure so I calmly stuck my tongue in her mouth. At this she instantly ceased speaking, no doubt reminded of the potentially pernicious (if not to say infective) nature of vocalizing negative thoughts.
And of course throughout the entire day, I keep my humans well hydrated. By dint of sticking my entire muzzle and ears into my water bowl I find I can transport quite a quantity of water to deposit on my humans. My thoughtful actions keep them cool and moist throughout the day. An excellent use of the many facial folds and wrinkles for which we bloodhounds are justifiably famous.
Anyway, I am looking into promoting The Wimsey Total Mind-Body Fitness System on the Home Shopping Network. Elizabeth says I need the taxable income.
Until next time,
Wimsey
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